Dead in the Water (28 page)

The colour drains from Jeremy’s face. “What’s the problem?”

“
Momento we have no problema. But we sure as fuck will do if the Brazilian Air Force shoots us down.” Jeremy makes a half-hearted attempt to laugh, assuming this is a dry joke. Dry as dust.

52
Kings Cross, London

“
I saw a dog die today.”

“
Oh?”

“
I don’t know why it upset me so much – not with everything else that’s happened – but I can’t get it out of my head.”

The Malabar Palms
is a small café in a back street near Kings Cross. According to the photocopied menus, it claims to be
Authentic Kerala Vegetarian Restaurant
. The food is surprisingly good, although the décor, except for the colour bleached photographs of the Malabar Coast which dress the walls, is reminiscent of a transport café: Formica table tops, plastic chairs, grubby carpet tiles on the floor. Mark had suggested one of the fancier places where they’d eaten before; but this is what Sara wanted. Although their phone call was amicable, and neither of them talked about why they were meeting, Mark had a feeling that she wanted neutral territory, somewhere that would hold no memories for either of them.

The television on a bracket high up in the corner behind the glass-topped counter is tuned to a London-based Asian community station. Mark and Sara are, however, the only people distracted by the grim scenes showing on the extended local news bulletin. There are no other diners in the café. And it seems that the staff, who only appear when anybody calls them, don’t expect custom. The Bollywood soundtrack and accompanying chatter and laughter emanating from a back room hints at something more uplifting than the baleful montage on the muted television.

“
That sounds horrible,” she says.

Taking polite turns to speak, they talk for a while about the floods and the drowning dog: Mark has developed a story which has the dog on board, not chained up, not even locked in, loyally choosing to wait in the upturned cabin for its master’s return.

“
What about the owner?” asks Sara.

“
He’d gone for some shopping and taken shelter in a pub. If he’d just been going to the pub, he’d have taken the dog with him.”

“
He?”

“
It’s only a story, Sara.” He catches the tetchiness in his own voice and immediately tries to make amends. “Maybe it was she. I just thought it more likely that a guy would leave a dog. A woman would have taken it with her.” He’s not sure how to read her, not sure what her smile means. He offers her some more wine. She shakes her head. The restaurant, which doesn’t sell alcohol, allows customers to bring their own. Mark brought with him a bottle of Chateau Musar, a Lebanese red they first drank in a Left Bank restaurant in Paris a year or so ago. Her glass is nearly full.

“
What makes you think the dog came from the boat?”

“
It’s not important.”

“
You wanted to talk about it.”

“
I know. But it’s not important. It was just an image.” They have finished eating. A cheer emerges from the back room. Bollywood Hero triumphs.

“
You wanted us to talk, Mark. I think that’s what we ought to do. Don’t you?”

He looks in her eyes. Reaches out and takes her hand. He could be about to propose – except that neither of them is smiling.

“
It’s alright,” she says. “I think I know what’s coming. You want to spend more time with your family.”

“
Joanna laid down an ultimatum. Either we get back together or get a divorce.”

“
Sounds fair enough to me. So what have you decided?”

Unable to look her in the eye, he empties his glass.

“
Joanna says it and you jump. But I’ve never been allowed to even mention divorce. You’re going back to her, aren’t you.”

“
I don’t know.”

“
Why not just text or e-mail? That would have been easier wouldn’t it.”

“
I wanted to see you,” he says. “I care about you.”

“
Not enough, Mark. There have been too many times, Mark, when I’ve been far too convenient for you. Useful me working for the BBC, isn’t it. A nice cosy dinner and you can spin your way straight to the News Department – and then, if it suits, a little bit of something on the side. I’m sorry. I took it all far too seriously. You just wanted some fun while you and Joanna dithered. Always good to mix business and pleasure. Saves so much time.”

She stands up and takes her coat off the back of the chair.

“
What are you doing?”

“
What do you think I’m doing? I’m going home. That’s for my share.” She places a twenty pound note on the table and puts on her coat. A couple of young men walk in and go to the counter. They press the bell for service.

Mark would like to ignore them, but he hushes his voice. “Sara, please,” he says reaching up and taking her hand.

“
Mark, if it’s over, it’s over.” But she doesn’t remove his hand, and she sits back down again, still wearing her coat. He wants to talk to her, he so wants to talk to her; but nothing seems appropriate.

“
You want a coffee?”

She shakes her head. “Was I too serious for you?” she asks.

“
No. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“
That’s nice. For two years we have a relationship; and then quite out of the blue you announce that you want to go back to Joanna.”

“
That’s not what I said.”

“
I actually think it’s got a lot to do with me. Maybe I’m just impatient. That’s what you said once, wasn’t it. Be patient. I’ve been very patient.”

“
I know.”

“
How long before there’ll be somebody else, Mark? You need someone here in London, don’t you. I mean Joanna’s all very well for weekends. But there’ll have to be someone to keep it all in working order during the week, won’t there, Mark. You know what really pissed me off last Wednesday? You wanted to stay the night. All those times I wanted you to stay the night, and you couldn’t. But last week you wanted to. You must have been feeling very vulnerable. A bit anxious. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it. For you, having sex is a little bit like running home to Mummy. It’s consolation.”

“
If Joanna and I get back together we’re going to live under one roof.”

“
That won’t suit, will it. Sounds like the D word then, doesn’t it.”

Mark shrugs. She attempts a smile, as if she has gone too far.

“
You’re wearing the earrings,” he says. The ones he gave her last Wednesday. “They look very good on you.”

“
Do you want them back?”

“
Don’t be ridiculous. No, I do not.”

“
Good.” She smiles.

“
They look much better on you than they ––”

“
Did in the shop. Yeah, yeah, yeah! You’re very good at those lines, Mark. I’m sorry. I’m being really immature, aren’t I. I’m angry. You understand that, don’t you.”

“
You have every right.”

“
Yes, I do.” She looks across to him, forces a smile. “Not like you not to defend yourself.”

“
It doesn’t seem the time for that, Sara. You’re right about me being unfair and selfish. I am sorry. And I do care about you Sara.”

“
Don’t say that.”

“
OK.” He pauses. “But you’re wrong about the earrings. They look lovely on you. And that’s not a line.”

She sniffs. Takes a tissue from her bag and blows her nose. “How’s Rachel?”

“
I think she’s OK. She’s coming home. Things went a bit pear shaped for her. But it could have been a lot worse.”

“
But she’s OK?”

“
Yes.”

“
That’s good.”

“
I have never lied to you, Sara.”

“
That’s what I used to tell myself in the dark times. When I felt desperately low about the impossibility of any future we might have together, I used to tell myself that in spite of everything you were one of the most honest people I could ever meet.”

The young men who came in ten minutes earlier leave noisily with their take-away in a large grease stained brown paper bag. And an older man, the man who owns the restaurant, appears at the table and asks them if everything is alright and do they want anything else. Sara asks for the bill. When the man goes back behind the counter, he turns the television to BBC1 to catch the beginning of the Ten o’ Clock News. Although the sound remains mute, many of the images of London are familiar from the local community programme; but the net of horror stories has been cast more widely and includes pictures of the Prime Minister in Lewes and Rye, distressed by the destruction wrought on the historic towns.

“
Don’t say sorry again,” she says. “Please. Offer me some respect, Mark. That’s all I ask now. Don’t try to get in touch again. Promise me?”

“
OK.”

“
No. Not ‘OK’. Make the promise.”

“
I promise.” Mark’s mouth is dry. The words come out in an unexpected whisper.

“
Thank you.”

“
I’ll pay for this,” Mark offers.

“
Thank you,” she says, and stays where she is in her chair, watching the News as he goes to the counter to pay their bill. He’s trying to attract the attention of the man who came to the table when his mobile phone vibrates.

“
Hello.”

“
Mark Boyd?”

“
Yes.”

“
John Lacey. You left a message.”

“
I’d really like to talk to you John. Is that possible?”

“
Talk then. That’s what you want to do. Talk. That’s why I called you.”

“
I’m in a café. It’s really difficult to talk here. Could we meet?”

“
Suzie White rang. Told me you might get in touch.”

“
Right. Could we meet? Is that possible?”

“
You on your own?”

“
I’m dining with a friend. But we’re … I’ll be on my own, yes.”

“
You got an address for me from Suzie? Come there. Half eleven. On your own.”

“
Right. Half eleven then.”

He shuts the phone and puts it away. The café owner appears. Mark pays cash. But there’s a problem with the change. By the time it’s sorted and he turns round, Sara has gone.

5
3
Boa Vista, Roraima, Brazil

When Boa Vista Air Traffic Control establishes contact with Terry he tells them he’s having intermittent engine trouble and they’re very low on fuel. Little wonder he’s been so quiet. “What’s the problem?” asks Jeremy tentatively, not sure that he wants to hear the answer.

Terry switches off the radio. “We have to get permission to land.”

“
With the engine.”

“
That is the problem. Permission to land.” Terry glances over. “Boa Vista. Coke smuggling capital of Brazil. And most of it arrives from Peru or Colombia in little planes like this one. Venezuela’s on the edge of civil war. We’re heading for Boa Vista air space, but we didn’t file a flight plan. Put that lot together and what do you get? There’s air force pilots down there itching for a duck shoot. That’s why we got engine trouble, JP. This way, they might at least allow us to land. Thing is we’re clean, aren’t we, but they won’t know that. So we might be lucky and find it’s just one of those days when they can’t be arsed; on the other hand they might arrest us and keep us locked up – all of us, JP – until they’ve torn this thing apart. That means taking off the floats and looking inside them. That could take a week by the time they get round to it. And then they don’t find anything – OK, we’re free to go; but in the meantime what happens to Rachel? She’s an English woman dressed in military fatigues without any form of identity. And what the fuck is that about?”

“
So what do we do?”

“
We dump fuel; and we run the engine over-rich for the last couple of minutes. That way she cokes up and with any luck gives up on us once we’re on the ground. It might be a bit hairy. But, hell, it’s better than being shot down.”

“
All that hassle filling the tanks…”

“
JP, if some guy says he’s running low on fuel and he lands with half a tank full, I’d be inclined to think everything isn’t quite what it seems. But ––”

“
What?”

“
I’m just the pilot.”

“
How risky is it?”

“
You like that question, don’t you. Believe me, I do not have a death wish. We got to drop down low to dump the fuel. I don’t want some bloody back-packer ringing in and saying she’s seen a floatplane dumping stuff over the jungle. That would get us in seriously deep shit. And once we’re down there we stay down there. So we come into Boa Vista along the Rio Branco. If we do run out of fuel, then we put her down. That’s what the floats are for. Providing we don’t hit logs, we’ll survive.”

“
And if we do? Hit logs.”

“
Never tried it.”

“
You’re going to do it?”

“
We don’t have any choice. Crying wolf with a Mayday call’s a serious criminal offence. So don’t tell your woman what’s going on. If she thinks the problem’s for real it might ease things a bit when they grill us.”